Women of the Otherworld - Bitten Part 32

I had to go back to Toronto. I'd known it since that day in the cabin, but I postponed it, telling myself Clay was too sick, Jeremy needed my help around the house, the Camaro was low on gas, pretty much any excuse I could come up with. But I had to go back. Philip was waiting. I had to confront him with what he'd seen, find out how he planned to handle it. Once that was done, I'd come back to Stonehaven. There was no longer any question of which home I'd choose. Maybe there never had been.

I belonged at Stonehaven. The idea still rankled. Maybe I'd never be entirely at peace with this life because I hadn't chosen it and I was too stubborn to ever completely accept something that had been forced on me. But Clay was right. I was happy here. There would always be a human part of me that would see fault with this way of living, a human morality appalled by the violence of it, vestiges of Puritanism that rebelled at such total immersion in satisfying primal needs. Yet even when Stonehaven didn't make me happy, when I was raging at Jeremy or at Clay or at myself, I was in a perverse way still happy, content at least, content and fulfilled.

Everything I'd chased in the human world was here. I wanted stability? I had it in a place and people who would always welcome me, no matter what I did. I wanted family? I had it in my Pack, loyalty and love beyond the simple labels of mother, father, sister, brother. So, realizing that everything I ever wanted was here, was I prepared to cast aside my human aspirations and bury myself in Stonehaven forever? Of course not. I'd always have the need to fit into the larger world. No amount of therapy or self-a.n.a.lysis would change that. I'd still hold down a job in the human world, maybe escape there for vacations when the insulated life of the Pack overwhelmed me. But Stonehaven was my home. I wouldn't run from it anymore.

Nor could I keep running from myself. I don't mean the werewolf part of me. I think I accepted that years ago, maybe even embraced it because it gave me an excuse for so many things in my life. If I was aggressive and snappish, it was the wolf blood. If I lashed out at others, wolf blood again. Ditto for any violent tendencies. Moody? Angry? Hot-tempered? h.e.l.l, I had a reason to be that way, didn't I? I was a monster. Not exactly a condition to invoke peace and inner harmony in the best of people. Yet I had to admit the truth. Being a werewolf didn't make me that way. Look at Jeremy, Antonio, Nick, Logan, Peter. Each one might have shared some of my less attractive characteristics, but so would almost any stranger pulled off the street. Being a werewolf made me more capable of acting on my anger, and living with the Pack made such behavior more acceptable, but everything that I was, I'd been before Clay bit me. Of course, knowing that and accepting it were two different things. I'd have to work on the accepting part.

It took almost a month from that day in Toronto for me to realize what Clay had meant when he'd said he knew why I picked Philip and why it couldn't work. The first two weeks after we recovered Clay were h.e.l.l, some days not knowing if he'd make it to the next. At least, it seemed that way to me. I'd watch him lying unconscious in bed and be sure his chest had stopped rising. I'd call for Jeremy. No, strike that. I'd scream for Jeremy and he'd come running. Of course, Clay was breathing fine, but Jeremy never made me feel I'd overreacted. He'd murmur something about a temporary shortness of breath, maybe minor sleep apnea, and he'd examine Clay thoroughly before settling into the bedside chair to watch for a "relapse." By the third week, Clay was regaining consciousness for longer periods and even I had to admit the danger finally seemed past. That wasn't to say I stopped camping out at his bedside. I didn't. I couldn't. And as long as I insisted on being there, Jeremy insisted taking over bedside watch while I slept or went for a run, even though we both knew such constant vigilance was necessary only for my peace of mind.

Near the end of the third week, I came back from my shower to find Jeremy in my post by Clay's bed, in the exact same vigilant pose I'd left him in twenty minutes before. I stood in the door, watching him, taking in the circles under his eyes, the gaunt prominence of his cheekbones. I knew then that I had to stop, get a grip, and admit to myself that Clay was doing fine and would continue to do fine-if not better-without constant surveillance. If I didn't, I'd run myself into the ground and Jeremy would follow without a word of protest.

"Feeling better?" he asked without turning.

"Much."

He reached back as I approached, took my hand, and squeezed it. "He'll be awake soon. His stomach's growling."

"G.o.d forbid he should miss dinner."

"Speaking of which, we're going out tonight. You and I. Someplace requiring a suit and tie and a shave-at least for me. Antonio is driving in with Nick. They'll look after Clay."

"That's not nee-"

"It's very necessary. You need to get out, get your mind off this. Clay will be fine. We'll take your cell phone in case anything happens."

As I nodded and sat in the chair beside Jeremy, the answer to Clay's puzzle hit me with such force I had to gasp. Then I had to beat myself over the head for not having seen it earlier. Why had I chosen Philip? The answer had been staring me in the face since I'd returned to Stonehaven. Who did he remind me of? Jeremy, of course.

In my defense, Jeremy and Philip did not, outwardly at least, have much in common. They looked nothing alike. They didn't share the same gestures. They didn't even act the same way. Philip didn't have Jeremy's emotional control, his authoritarianism, his quiet reserve. But these weren't the qualities I most admired in Jeremy. What I saw in Philip was a shallower reflection of what I valued in Jeremy, his endless patience, his consideration, his innate goodness. Why did I subconsciously seek out someone who reminded me of Jeremy? Because in Jeremy I saw some girlish vision of Prince Charming, someone who would bring me flowers and care for me no matter how badly I screwed up. The problem with this fantasy was that I had absolutely no romantic feelings for Jeremy. I loved him as a friend, a leader, and a father figure. Nothing more. So in finding a human version of my ideal, I'd found a man I was certain to love, but never with the pa.s.sion I'd feel for a lover.

Did that make me feel better? Of course not. In excusing my inability to fall in love with Philip, I wanted to be able to say that it was because of some problem in him, something he lacked. The truth was that the fault was entirely mine. I'd made a mistake and, as good and as decent as Philip was, he had to suffer for it.

After five weeks of postponing my return to Toronto, I decided to do it. Clay was taking an afternoon nap. I was lying beside him, half dozing, when I realized I had to leave right then, before I changed my mind. I got up and scribbled a note for Clay. Jeremy was out back fixing the stone wall. I didn't tell him where I was going. I was afraid he'd want me to eat dinner first or wait until he could drive me to the airport or some other delay that would give my resolve time to weaken.

I didn't call to tell Philip I was coming. Hearing his voice was one more thing that might make me change my mind. I went straight to the apartment and let myself in. He wasn't there. I settled onto the couch to wait. An hour later, he returned, panting from a run in the early July heat. He swung through the door, saw me, and stopped.

"Hi," I said, managing a weak smile.

I saw the fear in his eyes then and knew it never would have worked between us. No matter how close I got to any human, if they ever learned the truth about me, there would always be fear. You couldn't get past that.

"h.e.l.lo," he said at last. He hesitated, then closed the apartment door, and mopped off his face. After giving himself time to recover, he laid his towel on the hall table and stepped into the room. "When did you get back?"

"Just now. How are you feeling?"

"Fine. I got your flowers. Thank you."

I inhaled. G.o.d, this was awkward. Had it always been this way? I couldn't even remember how we used to talk. Any sense of familiarity had flitted away.

"Your-uh-side must be better," I said. "If you're out jogging."

"Walking. Not jogging. Not yet."

He sat in the recliner opposite me. I inhaled again. This wasn't working. There was no easy way to do this.

"About what you saw that day . . ." I began.

He said nothing.

"About what you-uh-saw me do."

"I didn't see anything." His voice was soft, barely audible.

"I know you did and we need to talk about it."

He met my eyes. "I didn't see anything."

"Philip, I know-"

"No." He spat the word, then pulled back and shook his head. "I don't remember anything about that day, Elena. You went to work. Your cousin came up looking for you. Two other men came up looking for you. Someone stabbed me. Then it's all a blank."

I knew he was lying. For the safety of the Pack, I should pursue it, get him to admit what he'd seen, and find a way to explain it away. Yet something told me that this was better for Philip. Let him explain it his own way. I owed him that much.

"I should go now."

I got to my feet. He said nothing. I saw my bags stacked in the hall, next to a few boxes of his own stuff.

"I've subletted the apartment," he said. "I-" He rubbed the bridge of his nose. "I would have called you, your cell phone. I was . . . working my way up to it."

"I'm sorry."

"I know." He met my eyes for the first time since I'd arrived and managed the barest ghost of a smile. "It was good, still. A mistake, but a good one. If you come back to Toronto someday, maybe you can look me up. Have a drink together or something."

I nodded. As I lifted my bags, my gaze flitted to the hall table.

"It's in the drawer," Philip said softly.

I turned to say something, but he was heading into the bedroom, his back to me. He closed the door.

"I'm sorry," I whispered.

I pushed open the lobby doors and walked out carrying two small pieces of luggage. I'd left a note for Philip to give the rest to charity or throw it in the garbage. There was nothing there I needed. I only took the two bags so he wouldn't think I was abandoning my things in anger. There was only one item in that apartment I'd really wanted back, the item I'd retrieved from the hall table drawer. I still had it in my hand. As I stood in the building vestibule, I put down the luggage, and opened my fist. Clay's wedding band gleamed in the streetlights.

Clay.

What was I going to do about Clay?

Despite all we'd been through, I still couldn't give him what he wanted. I couldn't promise my life to him, swear I'd be by his side every waking and sleeping minute, 'til death do us part. But I loved him. Loved him completely. There would be no other men in my life, no other lovers. I could promise him that. As for the rest, well, I'd have to offer what I could and hope it would be enough.

"You're here."

I looked up sharply. Clay stood in the wavering yellow light of a street-lamp. For a moment, I thought I was imagining things. Then he stepped forward, his left leg dragging, not completely healed after his ordeal.

"Didn't you get my note?" I asked.

"Note?"

I shook my head. "You shouldn't be here. You're supposed to be in bed."

"I couldn't let you leave. Not until I talked to you."

I glanced at the luggage by my feet and realized he must have thought I was waiting to get inside the apartment building, instead of leaving it. Hmmm. Never let it be said I pa.s.sed up the opportunity to milk something for all it's worth. Yes, I can be cruel, even s.a.d.i.s.tic on occasion.

"And what did you want to say to me?" I asked.

He stepped forward, putting one hand on my elbow and moving so close I could feel his heart beating through his s.h.i.+rt. It was pounding, but that might have just been from the exertion of the impromptu trip.

"I love you. Yes, you've heard that before, heard it a million times, but I don't know what else to say." He lifted a hand to my face and touched my cheek. "I need you. This last year, when you were gone, it was h.e.l.l. I made up my mind that when you came back, I'd do whatever it took to get you back. No more tricks. No more tantrums. I know I didn't do a great job. h.e.l.l, you probably never even noticed the difference. But I was trying. I'll keep trying. Come back home with me. Please."

I looked up into his eyes. "Why did you go back up to the apartment?"

He blinked. "Huh?"

"The day you were attacked. You saw Daniel and LeBlanc go up to the apartment, didn't you?"

"Right. . ."

"You knew I wasn't up there. You'd just spoken to me on the phone."

"Right. . ."

"So you knew the only person in the apartment was Philip. Yet you went up there and tried to protect him. Why?"

Clay hesitated, then said, "Because I knew it was what you'd want me to do." He stroked his thumb across my cheek. "I know that's not the answer you want to hear. You want me to say I had a sudden flash of conscience and went up there to save Philip. But I can't lie. I can't feel the things you want me to feel. I didn't care whether Philip lived or died. I saved him because I knew you'd want me to, because I knew if anything happened to him, you'd be hurt."

"Thank you," I said, kissing him.

"That was a good answer?" A hint of his old grin slipped into his voice and his eyes.

"The best I can hope for. I know that now."

"So you'll stay?"

I smiled up at him. "I never planned to leave, which you'd know if you'd bothered to read my note before charging all the way here to stop me."

"You-" He stopped, threw back his head, and laughed, then caught me up in a bone-jarring kiss and hug. "I guess I deserved that."

"That and more." I grinned and kissed him, then pulled back and watched him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"When you were gone, I was thinking this story wouldn't have a happily ever after ending. Maybe I was wrong."

"Happily ever after?" He grinned. "As in 'forever after'?"

"Well, maybe not 'forever after.' Maybe 'happily ever after for a little while.'"

"I could live with that."

"Happily ever after for a day or two, at least."

"A day or two?" He made a face. "I was thinking of a bit longer. Not forever, of course. Just eight, maybe nine decades."

"Don't push your luck."

He laughed and lifted me up in another hug. "We'll work on it."

"Yes," I said, smiling down at him. "I'm ready to work on it."

Acknowledgments.

This being a first novel, I have a lot of acknowledging to do, not just for help with this book, but for help with every short story, poem, and literary rambling that came before it. Thanks to my family, friends, instructors, fellow writers, everyone who ever offered a word of praise or criticism. Special thanks to my old writing group (Anonymous Writers of London). This novel was born at that group and, without their encouragement, it would have died there.

Now, for those who helped this book from concept to publication. To Brian Henry, writing instructor, who saw the promise in the story and recommended it to my amazing agent. To Helen h.e.l.ler, aforesaid "amazing agent," who worked nothing short of miracles. To Sarah Manges and Carol DeSanti at Viking for their enthusiasm and dead-on editorial suggestions. Finally, to my husband, Jeff, for knowing that a closed study door meant it was his turn to make dinner, and to my daughter Julia, who grew up knowing that a closed study door meant she could help herself to all the snacks she could eat.